Who Killed Mr. Garland's Mistress? (16 page)

Will leaned against the sink and watched her with concern. “Are you ready for a couple of questions?” he said.

“I'm botching everything, aren't I?”

“Christ, yes. I am a little curious though, which one were you planning to shoot, or were you waiting for the embrace to get them both with one shot?”

“That's not funny. He's supposed to be in Philadelphia.”

“And I could be playing liar's poker at The Pen and Pencil instead of sitting for hours in the boondocks getting raped by chiggers.”

“How long were you there?”

“Too long.”

“How will you get your car?”

“I'll have one of the copyboys drive me out there tomorrow.”

“Am I supposed to thank you?”

“It might be in order. Unless you have a yen to spend the next ten years on the prison farm.”

“I wouldn't have been caught.”

“For a broad that's supposed to be smart, you've got the most naive goddamn ideas. Society has created a very unique establishment concerning broads shot by high-powered rifles—called the police. Out there it would be the state police, who, by the way, are pretty goddamn efficient.”

“She deserves to die.”

“Leave that to God.”

“I wouldn't have been caught.”

“No, maybe Rob could have been arrested for it.”

“I told you, I didn't even know he was there.”

“So, if I buy that … you know that rifles can be traced. It doesn't take much imagination to figure out where you got it. Maine? Right?”

“Yes, I stole it.”

“Bright. Don't you think it's possible for the police to find that out?”

“I don't know.”

“And where were you supposed to be tonight?”

“At the library.”

“They know you at the library.”

“Of course they do. I spend hours and hours there and … Oh, I see what you mean.”

“What were you going to do with the rifle?”

“Wipe my fingerprints off and leave it. They'd never trace it.”

“Jesus H. Christ. Didn't you consider throwing it in the reservoir like I did?”

“No.”

“You can't go around killing people, even Helen, and not expect there to be little ripples of interest.”

“I didn't plan things well, did I?”

“That is the understatement of the year.”

“Will you help me?”

“God, no!” Will put his arms on her shoulders as she stared into her drink. “Listen, Tavie. That son-of-a-bitch husband of yours isn't worth it.”

“Well, at least I've got a few of my questions answered.”

“I can't understand the bastard, Helen over you. You're probably better in bed.”

“I'm not with him.”

He tilted her chin so their eyes were near. “Leave the prick. Look at this place.”

“What place?”

“The apartment. Even the oven. Go ahead, open my oven and peer into the sparkling … Christ, I sound like a goddamn commercial. I'm trying to tell you something, you dumb broad.”

She knew what he was going to say and wished he wouldn't. Her thoughts were confused, she couldn't deal with him tonight. “Don't say it, Will.”

“Why not? After sitting in the bushes for two nights and getting plastered, I have the right to say anything.”

“You're supposed to be the original sewer-fighter.”

“I've decided to take a war bride.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, tell me how you feel or I'm taking three sleeping pills and hitting the sack.”

“I don't know what to say. You can't love me, I'm a potential murderess.”

“I don't believe you could ever pull the trigger, but cut the crap out anyway.”

“Oh, let's go to bed—I do love you there.”

“And out of bed?”

“You're hardly ever sober.”

He shrugged. “Sacktime is better than nothing. But no more plots.”

“I promise.” And she knew she lied.

Helen lay in the upright coffin with hands folded across her chest. Tavie stood, with bow poised, a dozen feet in front of the coffin. It took all her strength to pull the bowstring back and loose the arrow. The arrow, with its rubber tip, hit and stuck to Helen's forehead. The other woman smiled, and stuck out her tongue.

Tavie picked up a rifle and pointed it directly at the other woman's heart and pulled the trigger again and again. The stream of water played gently over Helen. Tavie threw the gun away in frustration. Taking the long knife, she gingerly approached the coffin, raised her arm to strike and …

“Get it over with,” the gigantic voice boomed.

She plunged the knife into Helen's breast. Nothing happened, no blood, no response, and she examined the knife. The blade of the knife was on a spring and slid back into the handle when pressure was applied.

“You through now?” Helen said, and stepped from the coffin. “You finally through?” Tavie began to backstep as the giant came toward her.

Slowly. Helen took her arms away from her chest and reached for Tavie.

Tavie awoke with the sheet partially twisted around her neck. She turned over in bed and saw that the bedside clock showed five A.M. These recurring nightmares would have to stop. They were coming with such regularity that she was afraid to go to sleep. They would have to stop—they must stop.

The Rockweld Tennis and Pool Club was in a valley beyond Hartford. It was in a suburban area where farms gradually gave way to housing developments, and golf clubs were rapidly becoming the most important cash crop. She and Rob weren't members of Rockweld, although they had been asked. The expenditure of the money hardly seemed justified since the bulk of their summers were spent in Maine.

Jack Warren, an officer of Connecticut Casualty, was Rob's best friend. The bulk of their social evenings were spent with Jack and his wife Miriam. Since the Warren's were club members they often asked them to the club functions, and allowed the Garlands the use of club privileges when needed.

Japanese lanterns were strung around the pool and patio. The small white-tables each had a flickering candle under glass, and near the diving board a small combo played nostalgic music.

The party was well in progress as they walked up the few steps to the pool patio. They were late, and Rob had been very solicitous as to whether she was too tired and did she feel up to the party, but she had insisted they go.

Jack Warren spied them from the other side of the pool and waved. They ordered Tom Collinses from the bartender, and drinks in hand, made their way through the crowd to where Jack and Miriam were sitting.

Jack, wearing an outrageous red sports coat, stood to greet them. “Hi, people, pull up a log.”

Miriam, with her perpetual smile, turned to Tavie amiably. “Oh, Tavie, Jack was just telling me how you had to go to the island the other day. Can anything be salvaged?”

“From what she tells me, we have enough firewood for the next century,” Rob answered. “We're considering making it all into a large raft and floating the whole mess to Hartford.”

“That's the only way to take something like that,” Jack said. “Hey, tell us about Bermuda.”

“The funniest thing was this young honeymoon couple who had a table next to ours. Well, anyway, they …”

Rob had launched into his favorite Bermuda anecdote that Tavie had already heard. He unconsciously lowered his voice and bent toward Jack as he approached the dirty ending of the story. Miriam put her arm on Tavie and smiled. Tavie often thought that Miriam would smile at her own funeral; that the mortician, to make her appear lifelike, would have to pin her lips into that perpetual airline-stewardess grin.

“It just seems that you've had so much trouble this summer, dear,” Miriam said.

“I think it's over now. These things happen.”

“Of course.”

She had always envied Miriam. Her life seemed a continuous round of activities—Junior League, the local art league, days filled with projects, service organizations, and committee work. Tavie bet to herself that Miriam was on at least one committee for the planning and preparation of this dance. Since little Rob was in school with one of Miriam's children, Tavie was often exposed to Miriam's school projects. If the class was making a model of Plymouth, Massachusetts, Miriam's kids came to school with a model that would put an architect to shame, while little Rob was lucky to have two houses built of sugar cubes.

The band played a slow tune and Jack asked Tavie to dance.

“Hanging in there?” he asked.

“All the way, Jack.”

“When are we going to make it together?”

“Last Saint Valentine's day.”

He laughed and held her closer.

At one A.M. Tavie was getting drunk. The hanging lanterns had taken on a sharpened hue, and the laughter of people lulled and erupted with someone's raucous laugh. Rob was dancing with Miriam, and Jack played the bass on the small stage while the musician stood nearby looking apprehensive.

She crossed to the bandstand with two drinks in her hand. Jack looked down and smiled. She beckoned to him and he shook his head. She held up a drink and beckoned again. Reluctantly, he handed the bass back to the musician and weaved through the dance floor to Tavie. She handed him the drink and taking his hand led him away from the dancing couples.

“Hey, girl, I was just getting started.”

“That musician was about to bang you over the head. When are you going to show me the azaleas?”

He looked at her uncertainly. “The flowers?”

“The flowers, silly. Every time we come out here for a dance you offer to show me the azaleas, every time I've refused.”

“I've been offering for years. You must be high if you're finally taking me up on it.”

“Absolutely. Wonderfully, deliciously, high,” she said. “Down the hatch.”

Jack looked into her eyes and she stared back. They quickly gulped their drinks, and he took her hand and led her down the short steps to the surrounding gardens. The first step in her plan was taken through an alcoholic haze.

They stopped in the shadows and Jack pulled her to him. “Where are the flowers?” she asked.

“We're standing on them.” He kissed her passionately.

“I like that,” she said. “Isn't there someplace we can go?”

“I know a place.”

The toolshed smelled slightly of fertilizer and insecticides. The place didn't surprise her as she had always considered Jack's lovelife as taking place in toolsheds or behind kitchen refrigerators. She wished she had another drink, but didn't think that possible.

Jack led her to the rear of the small shed where there was a pile of musty blankets. “The caretaker goofs off in here,” he said. “A few of us have known about it for a while, but for obvious reasons we chose to ignore it.” He pulled her close. “I've wanted you for a hell of a long time.”

They made love. In thinking about it later, Tavie felt that love was a poor term. A more Anglo-Saxon word would be more appropriate. Jack didn't caress or possess—he consumed her, and, when spent, lay back on the blankets with an arm across his face.

“Feel bad, Jack?” she asked.

“Oh, no, Baby, it was great. Real great. I'm a little surprised it's you. I never thought you'd give in.”

“I have my reasons.”

“Not me.”

“A feminine revenge.”

“You know about her.”

“You've met her, what's she like?”

“Helen.” He thought a moment. “She's a hell of a lot different than you, at least I thought she was. She's got this strange laugh, I don't know how to describe it. She's never flustered, but there's something about her that scares you.”

“What?”

“I'm not quite sure. Like an animal peering from its cave, appraising the prey or something.”

“Do the men like her?”

“Some of the guys do, the others stay away. She's gone now, you know.”

“Rob's still seeing her.”

“You had him followed.”

“No, a guess. A very good guess. He's supposed to be taking a trip Thursday to Pittsburgh. He's not really going, is he, Jack?”

“No. Leave him alone, Tavie. He'll get over it.”

“I think she's blackmailing him. There's money missing from our checking account. Money that I can't explain.” She knew that the checks drawn on their account, presigned by Rob and typed by her, were made payable to Margaret Fitzgerald. She had used the money for her trip to Bermuda and had some hidden away for the rest of the plan.

“Blackmailing him. You're kidding,” Jack said.

“There's no other explanation. Either that or he's keeping her, and we can't afford that.”

Jack sat up and looked at her with a worried frown. “He wouldn't do that, Tavie. Maybe a few laughs, but not that.”

“I don't know what else to think, Jack. But you won't tell him, I know that after tonight you won't tell him.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Tavie stood in the locked garage, a length of rubber tubing in her hand, and considered the perfect method of suicide. Start the engine, run the tube from the exhaust and through a window … that was hardly her inclination at this point and she quickly rejected the thought.

The small Datsun station wagon was their second car and the one she usually drove. For Rob's trip tomorrow she'd find some pretext to have him drive the little red car and leave her the Ford. The Ford would do if necessary, but the bright red of the Datsun, and its smaller gasoline tank made it far more preferable. The owner's manual, which she took from the glove compartment, told her the fuel tank held eleven and a half gallons. She was momentarily puzzled by the odd amount, but then thought that it probably converted to an equal number of liters. The Ford held twenty-two gallons and that would make siphoning the gasoline that much more difficult.